not one thing (POEM 3)

I don’t want one thing in my life to be
automatic: not the machine that washes
my dishes nor the one that washes my clothes,
not even the little terse mouth that accepts

my credit card at the store, then spits it out.
That gorgeous green apparatus I finally
bought after years of guiding a little mouse-
powered hand-held, at least I turn it on

and off, even if its beater hums along and I
can walk away without watching, the batter
constructing itself: and if ‘automatic’ means

‘without thought’ or ‘without watching’
or ‘requiring no human intervention beyond
manufacture’ or, bluntly, ‘machine,’
then I suppose it is true that my life

is much machined, transacted without
much on my part besides flipping an on switch,
and checking back here and there to see if it’s
really working, and cursing when, for instance,

the crust of last night’s pasta has hardened on
the blue plate, the machine carrying out its own
encaustic arts. I wish I could make an art out of
my life with you, such as that time a machine kept

your heart and lungs going for hours and hours.
I drew an image of white light around your head,
your head and its silver hair and beard, I drew it
and drew it, like a sun, like stars. After, you slept

and slept the anesthetic off, oxygen flowing in.
The monitors singing their monotonous contraption-
songs. A nurse performed a beautiful ballet of post-op
steps. I watched her as I held your hand, reaching

for it from a chair set an awkward stretch away.
She took blankets from a warmer to drape
over your body. Your hand a weight in mine,
a small rig for the moment so quietly idling.